


Euan, euan, eu-oi-oi-oi

by aurilly



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Gen, The Wood Between the Worlds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-18 04:05:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2334647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurilly/pseuds/aurilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bacchus's visits to Narnia and other worlds over the years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Euan, euan, eu-oi-oi-oi

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KJPearl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KJPearl/gifts).



One of the vines coursing along the field takes a dip into the grass and disappears.

Bacchus has his eyes on a thousand aspects of the festivities around him, but this small movement catches his notice. He knows what it means. Somewhere, a new world is being created, a new playground. The vines always lead the way.

“Come!” he cries to the followers he has attracted in this realm. “Anyone who wishes to see a world in its freshness, and to taste wine from virgin soil, come with me.”

He leads them, beginning with a somersault and a hop, to the nearest body of water. The journey takes days, but the revelers, fueled by wine and fruit and the best sweetmeats this world has to offer, barely notice the effort. At the end is a splash of cool water as they wade in and duck their heads under the surface.

When they stand up again, they are no longer in a watering hole at the edge of a desert surrounded by friendly animals. Instead, they crowd in a small pond in a dense wood.

Each world has invented a story to explain Bacchus’s rare appearances. Sometimes he is the god who comes, sometimes he is the one who leaves. Sometimes they mistake one of his followers for him and erect statues to grown men, to old men, to satyrs, to maenads. Sometimes he isn’t a god at all, but a ghost.

But in every world, they hope for him. Even in the ones where he has yet to appear, they long for him without knowing what name to call him by.

Although he is frequently abroad, Bacchus’s true world is here, in this forest, beneath and between and above them all. Only he and a few others whom he has granted permission to make regular passage through his lands can read the signs that distinguish one pond from another. 

Bacchus finds the new vine he noticed and follows it to a pond that had previously been dry. The others are so drunk and full of merriment that they take this new splash as a continuation of their bath of a moment ago. To them, the worlds blend together into one never-ending fete. 

This new world is beautiful. Bacchus meets the king and queen of the country he lands in—crowned only days ago, they tell him. They don’t herald his arrival with the gratification of long-awaited hope. They take the party that has descended upon them as a given, just one more strange and wonderful thing in a land where everything is strange and wonderful. Bacchus is more surprised than angered by their lack of reverence; it transpires that they have come from a world Bacchus once loved, but which he has not visited in quite some time. 

He likes Frank and Helen so much that he decides to give their old world another chance.

One day.

For now, he will enjoy this woodland country full of fauns and dryads and all manner of delightful creatures.

Two worlds later, he has forgotten his decision.

*

A flash of red and gold and the ringing of sleigh bells signal the approach of one of Bacchus’s oldest acquaintances. Their aspects could not be any different, but the end result is the same—anticipation, excitement, revelry, plenty.

Father Christmas is a frequent and welcome traveler through Bacchus’s forest realm. They rarely cross paths, however, except here. They both take advantage of the shifting seasons between the worlds; but where Bacchus chases the summer, Father Christmas brightens the winter with joy. 

Lolling under a tree while Silenus spins the maenads a tale, Bacchus watches Father Christmas’s sleigh emerge from of a pond, dry save for some snowflakes on his beard. He tries to head for another, tentatively, as though expecting it not to work. When nothing happens except for the reindeer shaking water from their bellies, he climbs back out.

“There is something wrong with that one,” Bacchus notes. “We have not been able to get in for some time. At first I thought the world had died, but the pond has not dried up.”

“A witch now reigns in the land that the pond takes you to. She is keeping us both out.”

“Perhaps someone with a different entryway may get through and defeat her,” Bacchus says lazily. “I hope they do. That country was one of the merriest I have ever visited.”

*

Years later, though it feels like weeks, Father Christmas tells him that Narnia has been restored. The way is open once more. Aslan has prevailed.

“Spring is coming,” he says. “They long for you.”

“It will be my next stop.”

Bacchus finds Narnia even more beautiful than he remembers. The fauns are just as frisky, and the dryads just as beautiful.

He collapses after dancing the feast into existence. Beside him, wide-eyed and shy, sits a youth of about his age. Or, at least, the age that he appears.

“Not since the first time I came to this land have I entertained a human at one of my revels. From whence have you come, friend? Traveling from Archenland?”

The boy stammers, caught between modesty and pride. “No, I am king of this land. Well, one of the kings. My brother and two sisters sit in Cair Paravel with me. My name is Edmund. We come from another world… the same one King Frank and Queen Helen came from. We only arrived here in Narnia a couple of years ago.”

“Where are the other monarchs now, King Edmund of Narnia?” Bacchus asks.

“Susan and Lucy are on a diplomatic visit to Galma. Peter is down at Anvard discussing military alliances with Lune.”

“Well, I am glad they are away. Something tells me that these siblings of yours would not approve of you being here with me.”

Edmund chokes out a short, embarrassed laugh. “No, they wouldn’t. My subjects didn’t seem to want to tell me either. But all the dryad handmaidens spent the whole day giggling and looking at the clocks. And the cooks in the kitchen tried to pass off reheated leftovers for dinner so they could leave early. And well, I knew _something_ was up. So I followed them.”

“You did well, Edmund. Your presence here is a rare and pleasurable treasure. But,” Bacchus says with a twinkle. “if when we meet next, you need to pretend we are strangers, I will not be offended.”

“You _are_ a chap!” Edmund says gratefully.

Bacchus has never been called this before, and finds it amusing. He keeps the boy at his side for the rest of his passage through this land, which lasts weeks. And when they part, he cures Edmund’s hangover, and sends him back to his castle, just as bright-eyed and eager as he left it, ready to meet his sisters. The confused memories that everyone else retains of the revels will do the rest.

*

The next time he visits Narnia, he is told that the young ruler he had so very much enjoyed disappeared one day. He and all his siblings apparently vanished whilst on a hunt. Bacchus counts it as a shame, for that youth had the making of a good companion, and he had hoped to meet the others one day, too.

It is the last time for a long time that he visits, because the land becomes less and less fun. The creatures are too frightened of their new overlords to come out and play. Even the fauns have retreated deep into the ugliest parts of the forest. 

Bacchus regrets the sad state that that this land has fallen into, but there are too many realms, and too many summers to mourn one overmuch.

He has almost forgotten all about it when he hears the call. It comes slowly at first, a deep rumbling turning into a roar. He is being summoned. There are few who can manage it, and even fewer whom he heeds.

Bacchus leads the revelers to the correct pond and plunges in. 

Aslan has charged him with an easy enough task. Break the bonds of dullness that have grown up here. Free the river and bring freedom to the new age. These are jobs for which Bacchus was born.

Two very lovely human girls ride atop Aslan’s back. Bacchus welcomes them, but does not think to connect them with anything beyond the moment’s happiness. Later, when the victory is won, he watches them rush to embrace a familiar-looking youth. A youth who seems even younger than Bacchus remembers. 

For all his hopping between worlds and centuries, this is a phenomenon he has never before experienced. 

“Bacchus,” Susan says, with a queenly grace that can only have come from years of ruling that she is too young to have lived, “may I introduce you to my brother, Edmund.”

While Susan may have an inkling of what lies behind Bacchus’s smile, Lucy's brow remains unclouded by suspicion. He already loves both of these girls. If they were not quite so young and obviously bound for their home world, he would ask them—and their brother—to join his retinue and stay with him forever. 

“Nice to meet you,” Edmund says with well-feigned equanimity. “The fauns have told us all about you.”

“And me, you. Welcome, friends. Welcome to the feast.”

Later, when most have fallen asleep, Bacchus and his young friend recount their separate adventures, and end up dozing off side by side in the cool grass.

*

Father Christmas brings word that a few pockets of fun in a world Bacchus long ago lost interest in have surfaced. He remembers his decision, so long ago now, to give it another chance.

He and his retinue follow Father Christmas’s directions to an area in New York City, where apparently the revels are as intense as any he could ever wish for.

Disguises are not in Bacchus’s nature, but luckily, the humans have taken to donning the draped garb he has always preferred, at least for these gatherings. Wine flows freely. The music is strange and jarring, but Bacchus can work with this.

Despite being strangers, he and his followers are made welcome and take over the proceedings. 

In the corner, he spies a young woman—one of the most beautiful he’s ever seen. Her dark hair cascades down to her waist. She is young, pretty and appears comfortably situated in life. However, her eyes are sad. So sad that she has not yet looked up to notice him. She drinks slowly from a wine bottle and pretends to listen to the bore who is trying to win her affections.

Bacchus knows this young woman. She is older than he remembers, but that regal grace is unmistakable.

He makes his way to the corner where she sits and holds out a hand.

“Where is your brother, my queen?” he asks. “I would enjoy drinking with him again.”

“Can’t you see I’m talking to her?” the bore snaps.

But Susan finally looks up and gasps. “You…?” Then her face falls. “He is not here. None of them are here anymore. He took them.”

“Who? Who took them? I thought they died in a train crash,” the bore asks, but neither Susan nor Bacchus pay him any heed.

“Come with me, Queen Susan. Dance with me as you once did. Leave these people and dance with me forevermore.”

She does.


End file.
